


too many war wounds (and not enough wars)

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mentions of War Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:30:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5168999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know that you had surgery on your hip and, as far as I‘m informed, you didn‘t finish your post-op physical therapy regimen at the hospital and have been firing every PT who set foot in this house since."</p><p>John is ridiculously tall, and looking up at him makes Harold‘s neck hurt. Harold grits his teeth. </p><p>"Did Nathan also tell you about my shoe size? My social security number?"</p><p>John smirks at him, amused, and Harold has a sudden desire to close a heavy door in his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	too many war wounds (and not enough wars)

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by & written for nightwolfslair, who also helped with the details on physical therapy. Disclaimer: I have no clue about physical therapy, and any medical inaccuracies are mine. (Srsly, I barely know about medicine, you guys, this is a work of fiction. <3)
> 
> Huge thanks go to Dana, whose beta improved this story so much: Seriously, dear, you are making me a better writer here, I am learning so much <333
> 
> Also lots of thanks to Sky who contributed her awesome beta skills <333
> 
> Really, guys, I don't know what I would do without you. 
> 
> Lyrics from Fall Out Boy, "Irresistible".

"What the hell are you doing in here," Harold says, and then: "Did Nathan give you a _key?_ "

The physical therapist of the week - six feet tall with salt and pepper hair and a shoulder bag that has ‚I'M NOT CHECKING YOU OUT, JUST ANALYSING YOUR GAIT PATTERN‘ written on it - turns around and gives Harold a brilliant smile.

"Hello, I‘m John," he says pleasantly, holding out a hand. "You must be Mr. Finch."

He has put together a portable massage table in Harold‘s _living room_.

"No," Harold says, avoiding John‘s outstretched hand. He limps to the couch and throws his scarf onto it, unbuttoning his coat.

" _No,_ you‘re not Mr. Finch?" John asks, amused. He is wearing black yoga pants, a sports shirt that clings to his chest and a pair of sneakers in bright neon colors that a ten-year-old might choose.

Harold sighs. "Look, Mr. ..." He waves his hand a little, waiting for a last name.

John grins. "My name is John," he says. "I like to have my clients call me by my first name, actually."

"Well, I like to have my living room to myself," Harold says. "Also, I need to call my best friend and yell at him for invading my privacy yet _again_ , and I‘d like to be alone for that."

Despite the warmth of the room, he still hasn‘t taken off his coat.

"The shoulders?" John asks.

He is placing a towel over the massage table and produces a white bottle from his bag.

"I beg your pardon?" Harold asks.

"Taking off your coat, does it hurt your shoulders?" He doesn‘t look up from his rummaging around in his bag.

Harold purses his lips. "I don‘t see how that‘s any of your business."

"Mr. Ingram couldn‘t tell me much about your medical history, but he mentioned a whiplash trauma? It is not uncommon to experience neck and shoulder pain after that, and it can lead to chronic pain if it's not treated appropriately." He gestures to his own neck. "Can get painful especially with tasks that involve the shoulders, like taking off a coat."

"My neck is fine," Harold says pointedly. "I don‘t know what Nathan has paid you to invade my home at a Saturday afternoon --"

"Nothing, actually," John says.

He gets to his feet with fluid grace, his muscles flexing under the tight material of his shirt. His smile is unerringly friendly. "I like to get to know my clients first before deciding if I accept them," John says, shrugging. "So the first session is free."

"So you‘re actually here to check if I fulfill your requirements?" Harold asks. "You don‘t know anything about me."

He manages to work his right arm out of the sleeve of his coat, and mostly keep a straight face at the sharp pain that shoots into his neck at the motion. He takes the coat the rest of the way off and places it over the back of the couch. The fingers in his right hand are tingling like there's an army of ants running over his skin.The doctors said that there was no nerve damage, but if certainly doesn't feel that way.

John gives him a thoughtful look. "I know that you had surgery on your hip and, as far as I‘m informed, you didn‘t finish your post-op physical therapy regimen at the hospital and have been firing every PT who set foot in this house since."

John is ridiculously tall, and looking up at him makes Harold‘s neck hurt. Harold grits his teeth.

"Did Nathan also tell you about my shoe size? My social security number?"

John smirks at him, amused, and Harold has a sudden desire to close a heavy door in his face.

"If it helps at all, Mr. Ingram didn‘t mention that he was sending me here without your knowledge. I assumed you‘d want to give it another try and had requested a personal PT, I wouldn‘t have let myself in otherwise."

That is marginally better than just showing up in someone‘s place uninvited, Harold has to admit, but it still doesn‘t change the fact that he won‘t waste his time with stupid gymnastics when he could get back to work instead.

"Look, Mr. Finch," John says suddenly. "I have a proposition for you. I have planned an hour for this meeting starting right about now, so I have nowhere else to be. If you really are fine and have no need for my services, I‘ll just sit down here for sixty minutes and read a book. Should you be in pain, however, I could as well spend the next hour working on the sore spots - your call, really. Even if you have no interest in hiring a personal PT, a neck massage can‘t hurt, can it?"

Harold rolls his eyes. "I think you made a bad career choice going into physical therapy, you could make a fortune selling pre-owned minivans to suburban housewives."

John laughs, and the lines around his eyes make him look even more handsome. Harold sighs deeply.

"I don‘t mind either way, Mr. Finch," John says. "It‘s a pretty great book, you know. But I‘ve seen you walk in, how carefully you‘re moving. I‘m pretty good at what I‘m doing, and I‘d like to see if I can ease the pain a little, if you‘ll let me."

"I‘m sure you can accomplish in an hour what high-dose pain medication couldn‘t accomplish in weeks, _John_ ," Harold says.

When he takes off his tie, it‘s really just to put an end to the discussion.

\--

"Don‘t try to hold your head up, I‘ve got you," John says softly above him.

Harold makes a face. "For all I know you‘re an actor Nathan specifically hired to torture me, I am sorry if I am not quite ready to put my life into your hands."

John smiles. Harold is lying on his back on the massage table, a blanket spread over him. John has his hands beneath his shoulders, supporting his neck, his fingers working into the muscle.

Harold winces when John hits a particularly sore spot, and then again when his fingers just rest there, not even pressing down, until the pain subsides. The feeling is like hitting a runner‘s high, a rush of endorphins that comes with the way Harold‘s muscles loosen up. John is working some kind of lotion into his skin that he warms up in his hands.

Harold makes an effort to relax into John‘s hands and John hums appreciatively.

"Hmh, that‘s it," he says, finding a spot at the base of Harold‘s skull that makes Harold grunt in pain before he can stop himself.

"There?" John asks. He moves his fingertips a little, and the pain goes from dull and throbbing to bright and hot.

"Yes," Harold gasps.

He makes a very undignified noise when John says "I see" and does something with his hands that feels incredible.

When John is done with him, he puts a folded towel under Harold‘s head and smoothes his hands over the skin of his neck in long, leisurely movements, then draws the blanket up over him.

Harold opens his eyes, unfocused without his glasses.

"You should let yourself rest for another moment," John says. "Your glasses are on the coffee table, I‘ll just let myself out. I know the way." He puts on a black leather jacket and shoulders his ridiculous bag.

"What about your equipment?" Harold asks, squinting at John‘s silhouette in the doorway.

John shrugs. "I‘ll need it for next time, anyway, and I don‘t have any other clients tomorrow, so I‘ll just leave the table here. So, Monday good for you? Around eleven?"

Harold opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

His shoulders and neck are resting comfortably against the massage table, and his muscles feel very warm. His headache has lessened significantly, and there is a pleasant looseness where painful spots used to be. "Monday sounds just fine," Harold says.

John dims the lights on his way out, and Harold closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

\--

"You know, when we started this, you said a neck massage couldn‘t hurt," Harold says. There is sweat dampening the fabric of his collar, and the muscles in his leg are quivering where it is stretched out in front of him.

Harold used to enjoy exercise, the way it cleared his mind and made him sharper after, more focused. But that was before the accident, when he could run for an hour in the park. Now, after nearly two months of inactivity, sitting in a chair while doing stretching exercises has become a straining workout.

"You spent a long time after your surgery avoiding physical therapy and rehabilitation," John says. He is kneeling in front of Harold, his fingers lightly touching the front of Harold‘s sneakers to remind him to move into the stretch. "It was what, six months after the initial mobilisation they did with you at the hospital? Your gait changed to avoid the pain, which lead to a contracture and restricts your hip motion. Stretching exercises can help to regain flexibility."

"So you keep telling me," Harold says, breathing out when John removes his hand and lets him relax.

"You‘re holding your breath when you‘re focused on an exercise," John says, smiling. "Try to keep breathing through it this time."

Harold looks down at him with a dismayed expression.

He stretches his other leg and pulls his foot up ("Try to pull your toes up to your nose", as John would say. If Harold were able to touch any part of his face with his toes, surely having a personal PT would be a waste of money and nerves.), feeling the stretch all the way up into his thigh.

"Stretching the hamstrings can go a long way in alleviating sciatic pain," John says. "The acetabular fracture you sustained during the trauma led to hip dislocation and caused sciatic nerve injury, which is responsible for the muscle weakness and pain. Try these exercises as homework, I promise it won't feel that bad after.”

Harold huffs. "Will there be a test on the anatomical cause of my problems after this session? Should I be taking notes right now?"

John gives him a throaty laugh and looks up at him. "Teasing the PT traditionally leads to more repetitions on a set," he says.

Harold is about to reply when a hot pain shoots through his left thigh with sudden force. He curses, his hands coming down to grip his leg immediately.

John is already there, placing two warm palms on Harold‘s thigh. "Muscle spasm?" John murmurs, kneading the muscle and stretching Harold‘s leg lightly.

"No, I'm just seeking attention," Harold groans, the pain slicing through his leg like a hot knife.

John looks up from under his lashes, strong hands still working Harold‘s thigh.

" _Yes,_ muscle spasm," Harold groans through the pain, and then John gets a good angle and kneads his leg just right, and Harold feels the muscles slowly relax. Harold lets himself sink back into the chair.

"It‘s fine, I --," he starts, except John doesn‘t take his hands away, digging in deeper instead. "Oh, _that‘s_ ," Harold says, before speech fails him.

In his defense, John Reese is excellent at what he does: Kneading and pressing down with just the right amount of pressure, just long enough to ease the soreness, loosen the knots.

"I think we‘ve done enough exercise, let me work on your neck for a bit and we‘re done for today."

He gets up and holds out a hand to Harold.

Harold pushes himself up from his chair with his arm, ignoring him. "I can get out of a chair by myself, John," he says, limping over to the massage table. "Also, your shirt is especially inappropriate for work today."

John‘s ears turn a little pink when he looks down at his Johnny Cash shirt. "It‘s laundry day," he says sheepishly.

Harold sighs and lets John put capable hands on his sore muscles.

"I‘m sure with whatever absurd sum Nathan pays you to suffer my company you should be able to afford more than three shirts," Harold says, muffled against the towel.

John clears his throat.

"Yeah, about that," he says.

Harold, who has been blissfully relaxed while John worked on his lower back, opens his eyes instantly. Oh, _come on._

"Nathan doesn‘t pay you at all because he thinks _I am,_ only I‘m not and you didn‘t bring it up because you thought I‘d try to fire you again," he says, because _obviously._

John works on the muscles next to Harold‘s spine, warming them up gently. "You tried to fire me every day for two weeks, I didn‘t think it would be a good idea to press the paycheck issue."

"You worked for one month without getting _paid_?" Harold asks, voice rising on the last words, and makes an attempt to get up from the table.

John strokes his hands over the muscles of his shoulder and Harold melts into the touch instead, sinking back down. "I was going to bring it up eventually," John says, a touch of defensiveness in his voice. "I have other patients, too, I can‘t complain."

Harold gestures towards the desk in the corner. "There‘s a checkbook in the second drawer, if you bring that over along with a pen, --"

"Relax. You‘re fidgeting," John says, finding a spot that makes Harold sigh loudly.

"Just write down a number," Harold mumbles. "Maybe I'll even hack Nathan's bank account, just for fun." He lets himself feel the movement of John‘s hands on him, the way the pain is gradually smoothed away. John's voice sounds distant. Everything is calm inside of his mind.

\--

When Harold wakes up, he is covered in a blanket. The light in the room is dimmed, and there is a thermos with tea waiting on the coffee table.

Harold stretches, getting up. His limbs feel heavy and relaxed, tingling pleasantly.

There is a note next to the cup and thermos that says:

_"Do the exercises I assigned you as homework, I can tell when you're avoiding them._

_See you on Thursday. – J._

_P.S.: Johnny Cash = one of the most influential musicians of the 20th century."_

Harold smiles despite himself. When he pulls out the drawer and opens the checkbook, he expects a sum to be written on the line. Instead, he finds a post-it attached to the first page:

NO REALLY

DO YOUR EXERCISES.

Harold turns on the CD player in the corner and sits down in the half-darkness with a cup of tea.

It's Liszt: _Liebesträume No.3 in A-Flat Major._ Harold lets himself sink against the cushions, realizing that it's the first time he can concentrate on the music without the sounds being dulled by the pain.

–

"You must have lost your minds, both of you," Harold says, staring at Nathan and John in horror.

Nathan is putting on his coat and grabbing his keys, oblivious to Harold's threatening stare.

"I have planned this business trip for three months, Harold, so the apartment is empty anyway. You might as well make use of it."

"Aquatic physical therapy can be hugely beneficial for gait, flexibility and muscle strength without placing too much strain on the joints," John adds helpfully, looking like a dog with a squeaky toy.

"It's an indoor pool for bored rich people, not a medical training facility," Harold snaps.

"I'm not bored," Nathan says, pouting. He turns around. "John, I appreciate your enthusiasm."

"Dear God, please don't encourage him," Harold mutters.

In the meantime, John has stepped out of his pants and taken off his shirt, standing at the edge of the pool in just a black speedo, and the rest of his protest dies in Harold's mouth.

"Something the matter, Harold?" Nathan asks innocently.

John dives into the pool with a splash before resurfacing and combing his slick black hair away from his face with his hands, rivulets of water running down his face and throat.

Harold has the sudden urge to strangle Nathan with a USB-cord.

"The depth is actually perfect over here, Mr. Ingram," John calls over to them, grinning.

Harold grabs Nathan by the arm. "Why do you insist on making me suffer?" He hisses.

Nathan waggles his eyebrows. "Yes, Harold, getting into a pool with _him_ does sound like a hardship, I completely agree." He grabs his suitcase and walks over to the door. "Play nice, Harry, I'll be back in a week."

"I will hack everything that you love," Harold calls after him.

When he turns back, John has pillowed his head at the edge of the pool, drops of water clinging to his dark lashes.

"Ready to get started?" He asks.

Harold wonders if he can manage to drown himself a water aerobics lesson costs him the last shred of his dignity.

–

The excuse of not having appropriate swimwear falls flat when John points to a plastic bag in the corner: apparently Nathan has been taking precautions. Harold grabs the bag with a sour expression on his face and limps towards the bathroom to change.

John has taken to swimming laps in the pool, strong shoulders flexing where he is parting the water with quick strokes. Harold hesitates for a moment with his hand on the door handle, watching the muscles ripple in John‘s back, the way he pushes himself off from the edge with his legs.

Harold has been a decent runner in this time, but he‘s not kidding himself: even compared to his form then, John looks like an Olympic athlete.

Harold shakes himself out of his reverie and disappears into the bathroom.

Apart from the simple navy blue swimming trunks, Nathan has also purchased an absurdly tight speedo with a horrifying Hawaii print on it. Harold holds out the offensive garment with his fingertips and transfers it into the trashcan.

He types a quick text to Nathan ("YOU'RE HILARIOUS, I AM SENDING THE VIDEOCLIP FROM WHEN YOU GOT DRUNK AND FELL ON YOUR ASS DURING THE OFFICE CHRISTMAS PARTY TO EVERYONE'S IFT MAIL ACCOUNT LATER") before taking off his clothes carefully, trying to avoid movements that will make his hip or shoulders act up.

Outside, he can hear John splashing around in the pool like a happy seal.

Harold puts on the blue swimming trunks and looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. The scars on his hip and thigh have faded a little by now, soft pink instead of angry red. His thigh looks small where the muscles have already started to get slimmer under the scar tissue, like there is a part of him missing. There are lines of scar tissue running down his skin like a thick spider web.

Harold turns off the lights and opens the door.

\--

"A little closer to the edge, please," John says. Harold is sitting at the edge of the pool, his legs submerged in the water while John helps him to flex his knees and stretch his sore muscles.

"Do you still have trouble with the knee extension?" John asks, his hands on Harold‘s skin gently guiding him into the motion.

"If that is a veiled attempt at finding out if I did my exercises, the answer is yes, I did them, and yes, even moving my leg in your famous _neutral position_ is causing me trouble."

If John is bothered by Harold‘s miffed response, he doesn‘t show it. He just smiles up at him the same way he always does: bright and friendly, as if Harold had just paid him a compliment.

"We're not using an anatomy book for reference here: the goal is not to get you to move from full extension to neutral to full flexion. Your range of moment can differ from that and still allow you lots of flexibility. Don't beat yourself up if you can't get there all the way, it's a marathon, not a race.”

Harold extends his leg a little further and winces at the pain. "Don‘t overdo it. You don‘t have to force yourself to move all the way through the pain. There‘s a reason it still hurts: your body is trying to stop you from putting too much strain on structures that are still recovering."

"The _reason_ it hurts," Harold snaps, hands clenching on the tile, "is because I insisted on driving a car over frozen roads after staying up for 40 hours coding a server database."

John stays very still, his hands resting lightly on Harold‘s bad leg.

"Because obviously, someone as brilliant as me couldn‘t ever be touched by mundane things like exhaustion," Harold says, his knuckles whitening where he is still holding on. "I could never drive myself off the road and end up trapped under the dashboard. It's impossible that I would need six hours of surgery to keep my broken hip from falling apart. No doctor would ever tell me I should be glad I can walk at all.”

When Harold looks up, John‘s gaze is unbearably soft. His hand is moving gently, the same way he touches a muscle that hurts.

Harold looks away. "So, you see, John, the pain isn‘t about my body protecting itself, it‘s the consequence of my own hubris."

John pats his leg. "Get into the water," he says softly.

"I am not really in the mood to --," Harold starts, but John is already beside him, supporting him where he is sliding off the ledge and into the pool.

The water feels warm around him, and for a moment he is floating, weightless, before his feet find solid ground beneath them.

"Try to relax into it," John says close to his ear.

Harold‘s whole body is tense with agitation, and what he really wants to do is to get out of the water and go somewhere where he doesn‘t feel like a broken piece of machinery.

Still, John has his arms under Harold‘s shoulders, keeping him above the surface, and his hold is solid enough that Harold allows himself to stop struggling.

"I was in the army, before," John says.

His voice sounds different: less playful, a little rougher around the edges.

"After my third tour - Afghanistan -, I came back and decided I was done shooting at people, that I‘d rather help them get better. I worked at a military rehabilitation clinic for veterans for three years then. You know what many of the patients there said?

"That they didn‘t mind. They didn‘t want prothestics to replace amputated limbs, they didn‘t want physical therapy. One guy there walked for a month on a carbon fiber leg that wasn‘t adjusted correctly: he was in constant pain and rubbed himself bloody and sore on the prosthetic. When I asked him why he hadn‘t come in earlier, to get it adjusted, he shrugged and said: ‚I don‘t mind, it‘s just a bit of pain.‘"

Harold closes his eyes, lets his legs drift in the water.

"I read his file, later. His best friend threw himself on a grenade in front of him. You wanna know why people choose to live with pain for the rest of their lives, even when there are ways to treat it? They don‘t think that they deserve better."

John finds a spot in Harold‘s neck and presses down, and Harold sighs and lets his head sink back against John‘s chest, drifting where John is supporting his weight.

"What happened to him?" Harold asks quietly. "Your patient?"

Harold can feel John‘s breath stutter in his chest.

"I sometimes tell patients this story, you know? I always tell it like, uh: he got therapy, got a good fit on his prosthetic leg, now he‘s living in a condo in Palm Springs, takes longs walks with his dog every weekend."

"That‘s not how it went, is it," Harold says.

John clears his throat.

"No. He didn‘t get over it. Thought it should have been him instead, to get killed by that grenade. A neighbor found him in his garage, sitting in the car with his parade uniform on, the engine running, the garage door closed."

John presses on a spot between Harold‘s shoulder blades and Harold feels something in his shoulders loosen.

"That‘s not how I want to tell that story, though," John says. "He was a good guy, he deserves a better story than that."

"A condo in Palm Springs," Harold says.

"Yeah," John says. His hands on Harold‘s back are very gentle.

\--

"Okay, five more, then we start on the other leg," John says, grinning at the way Harold‘s face falls.

"You said ‚only five more‘ after each of the last few sets as well," Harold pants.

Moving in the water is kinder on his knees and back than John‘s aimless walks around the city ("Where are we going?" - "It‘s not the destination that matters, you know, it‘s the journey. Draw your shoulder blades back a little, you‘re tensing up." - "I‘ll stop tensing up if you stop using Zen philosophy and clichéd Buddhist quotes as a way to motivate me." - "We could stop at the cafe you like on the way back, get you a hot cup of tea?" - _"Fine."_ ), but it‘s still exhausting.

Harold stands in the shallow part of the pool with John in front of him, instructing him.

"Just like that, go through with the motion all the way," he says, his hand supporting Harold‘s knee, exerting pressure against the tension Harold builds up in his legs.

Harold tries to distract himself from the burning in his leg, so he looks at John instead. There is about two days worth of stubble on his chin, and with his wet hair plastered to his head, his cheekbones look even sharper. Harold swallows, and lets his gaze drop a little.

Harold makes a list in his head of things he notices, trying to block out the pain: John‘s chest is smooth except for a light dusting of hair, his chest and stomach muscles well defined. He has large hands and neatly trimmed fingernails.

Harold pushes through the last repetition and leans against the side of the pool, catching his breath.

"Well done," John says, removing his hand from Harold‘s leg.

Harold finds that he doesn‘t mind being touched by John: especially not when he is spread out on the massage table with John‘s capable hand working his muscles and loosening the knots in his shoulders and back.

John is standing very close. He bends his knees and drops beneath the surface only to come up again immediately, shaking his wet hair like a dog. Harold

Harold watches a drops of water run from the side of John‘s face down into the hollow of his throat before spilling down his chest and running over his bellybutton. He realizes that he should have focused his attention somewhere else when he feels himself growing hard in his swimming trunks, heat rushing into his face.

John is explaining something about water and gravity and muscle strength, oblivious, so Harold crosses his legs underwater, wills himself to calm down.

"You ready for another round?" John asks, smiling. He looks comfortable in the water; he looks comfortable with himself. There is a fluid grace to his movements as if he inhabits his body completely: Harold envies him that.

"I don‘t think so," Harold says in a clipped tone.

John tilts his head a little. "I promise we‘re done, after. I could do a trigger point massage again, that seemed to work well for you last time?"

"Or we could call it quits for today, and you get to go home early. You have a home, yes? You don‘t just spend your nights at a gym, napping on the weight benches?" Harold asks with a touch of hysteria in his voice.

John squints at him suspiciously. "What‘s going on?"

Harold sighs and uncrosses his legs. John is standing close enough that he should be able to get the message.

"Ah," John says, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Don‘t smile at me," Harold groans. "That‘s making it worse."

"It‘s not uncommon, physical exercise does improve blood flow --," John starts.

"Yes, well, it‘s not just the exercise, so. If you could leave now so I can pull a towel over my head in mortification, that would be too kind," Harold mumbles.

"It‘s fine, really," John drawls. If anything, he stands even straighter, showing himself off.

"It‘s _really not,_ " Harold says, pointedly not looking at John.

His cock isn‘t bothered by the awkward exchange: he is fully, visibly hard beneath the clingy fabric.

"I work out a lot, it‘s fine to look," John says with a conspiratory wink. "It‘s a compliment."

"Did you just _wink_ at me?" Harold asks, his voice sounding pitched too high to his own ears.

John smirks and reaches behind him, placing his hands down on the tile and slowly pushing himself up until he is sitting just at the edge of the pool, legs dangling into the water. It‘s a good look on him, putting his shoulders on display and getting Harold eye to eye with John‘s abs, the sharp line of his v-cut disappearing under his black speedo.

"Like the view?" John asks in his stupidly throaty voice, and Harold groans and buries his face in his hands.

"Pretty sure you still have a few repetitions to go," John says. "Unless you‘d rather send me home."

Harold moves his hands away from his face. "You‘re impossible," He says through gritted teeth.

John bats his lashes. "You want me to come back in and assist you?"

"You stay where you are," Harold snaps. "Also, you need to shave, you‘re looking wildly unprofessional with that ridiculous stubble."

John grins, running a hand over his chin. "My other patients haven‘t complained yet."

Harold huffs. He can imagine _that_. "Maybe they were out of breath because your exercise plan feels like Army Basic Training instead of medical rehabilitation," Harold says.

John runs a hand through his wet hair."Nah, I‘m not up for boot camp again, I like the way my hair has grown out since then."

"Please shut up," Harold sighs, counting his repetitions while holding on to the edge of the pool.

\--

"How is the shoulder pain?" John asks, placing his hands on Harold‘s skin while he is doing repetitions in the water.

Nathan has made peace with the fact that John and Harold now occupy his indoor pool every Friday. It‘s not like Nathan usually spends Friday evenings and nights in his own apartment anyway.

If Harold is honest, the sessions with John have become a fixture in his life, maybe even more than the work he has started to do from home, his laptop set up at the desk in the kitchen, a cup of tea sitting beside him.

"Much better," Harold says, truthfully.

John nods, his hand gently stabilizing Harold‘s hip where he is moving his legs under the surface of the water.

"Training both strength and flexibility has paid off," John says, moving his hand away when Harold breathes out deeply and leans against the edge. "Two months ago, you could barely get through one set of these, not to mention a whole walk through Central Park."

"You bribed me with ice cream," Harold says, and John laughs.

"I wasn‘t very subtle, huh?" John asks.

There‘s no need for him to support Harold while he‘s leaning against the side of the pool, so John lets himself drift, swimming around in the deeper part of the pool.

Harold closes his eyes, content.

"You know, you should definitely keep up the water exercise and the walking on your own. Ideally, you‘d continue with the strength and stretching exercises, too, but that would be a bonus, if we‘re honest. Most people start to neglect their home exercises the day the PT leaves the house."

Harold opens his eyes. "What do you mean, "on my own"?" he asks, before realizing.

Harold‘s pain has lessened significantly, he has gained strength and flexibility and gets along rather well in his everyday life, which makes John‘s presence... unnecessary.

John swims over until he‘s floating right next to Harold. His smile lacks its usual brightness.

"You know all the exercises, you barely needed my help during those last few training hours as it was. I thought this could be our last session, actually."

"Oh," Harold says.

Harold is surprised by the feeling that floats through him at the thought: after all these weeks of complaining about John‘s exercise plan, his stupid shirts, his obnoxious flirting, Harold doesn‘t feel relief at the thought of never seeing John again. All he feels is a sense of disappointment, of loss.

John studies Harold‘s face, before blurting out: "I thought we could have coffee sometime."

Harold‘s eyebrows shoot up at the suggestion.

John manages an approximation of his usual, lazy smile, suddenly shaky. "Well, tea for you, but coffee for me."

"Are you _asking me out_?" Harold asks, sounding incredulous, because frankly: joking about these matters seems unlike John, and unnecessarily cruel besides.

John‘s smile disappears.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," he says, wincing. "I read you wrong there." His tone is light, but he is avoiding Harold‘s gaze. "No offense, I thought if there was a chance that you might be interested, I wouldn‘t want to miss my opportunity."

"If I might be --," Harold trails off, completely at a loss.

He can‘t believe that John thinks that he‘s being rejected, that Harold could not _want_ him.

"What could you possibly you see in me," Harold sputters before he can think better of it, "when you could have anyone, literally _anyone_ else in the world with one stupid wink of yours."

John looks up at him with wide eyes. "I don‘t want anyone else," he says, his face vulnerable and honest.

"For God‘s sake," Harold mutters and puts his hands against the back of John‘s neck. John puts his feet down on the ground of the pool, straightening, so Harold has to draw him down until their lips meet, compensating for the difference in height.

John‘s breath hitches in his chest, a stutter of relief, and then they‘re kissing, soft and careful. John bends his knees and then the angle is much better, John‘s arms coming around Harold‘s shoulders as if he‘s afraid that Harold might fall.

Harold presses him against the side of the pool, licking at John‘s lips until he opens his mouth for him, strokes his fingers over the stubble on John‘s chin.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to Harold, and he pulls away.

"I can‘t," he whispers, and John‘s hands tighten on his arms reflexively.

Harold shakes his head, impatient. "No, I don‘t mean _this_ , I mean, I am paying you money, this is a... physical therapist... client kind of situation, it would be exceedingly wrong for me to, --"

"You‘re not paying me at all," John murmurs, leaning in to press his mouth against Harold‘s throat, licking at the drops of water there.

Oh, _God_.

"What?" Harold asks, his voice about an octave too high.

John moves his head back to smile at him. "I didn‘t want to bring it up at first because I thought you might fire me, and later... because I thought I might want something more than a physical therapist / client kind of situation."

"So you intended to seduce me all along," Harold mutters, sliding his hands around John‘s middle, pulling him closer.

"I don‘t know what gave you that idea," John says, smiling against his mouth.

This close, Harold can feel John‘s erection pressing between his legs, the muscular strength of John‘s body against him.

John gets himself in just the right position, giving him friction without Harold having to strain his hips or back. The water is swaying around them with their movements like waves on a shore, John‘s hair smooth and wet beneath his fingers where Harold strokes his scalp.

"There‘s a guest room in the back," Harold says, nibbling at John‘s earlobe.

John curses softly, his hips jerking against Harold. "So what are we waiting for," he says roughly. Harold traces his tongue along the shell of John‘s ear just to hear him gasp.

\--

Harold is sorry that he doesn‘t get a chance to undress John, but then again the view quite makes up for it: They get some towels from the bathroom and Harold gets to watch John rubbing himself dry, running the towel over his hair impatiently. He doesn‘t make a show out of it, and Harold draws him close, greedy for touch, takes the towel from him and runs it over John‘s back.

There is a large bed in the guest room, and a look into the bedside drawer makes it clear that Nathan is the kind of host who thinks of virtually everything. Harold makes a mental note to thank him and throws condoms and lube onto the bed.

John takes a deep breath beside him, his hands already on Harold. Then Harold gets wrapped up in a large, fluffy towel, John's hands coming around him to smoothe the fabric over his shoulders, his lower back.

Harold lets him, kissing and biting at John's exposed throat, lightly scratching his nails over John‘s rib cage.

"That will do, I think," Harold says. "Get down on the bed for me."

John doesn‘t look opposed to taking orders in bed: he lies down immediately, naked except for his speedo, stretched out on his back. His hair is wet and ink black, and Harold has the sneaking suspicion that John is showing off, planting his feet firmly onto the sheets, thrusting his pelvis up a little so his abs are on full display.

"Take it off," Harold says, nodding at John's speedo.

John reaches down and pulls the thin piece of fabric down over his legs, spreading them more than necessary. He lets his knees fall open, exposing himself.

Harold gets rid of his own swimwear and wraps a towel around his hips before he sits down on the bed next to John.

As expected, John makes an attempt to get up, but Harold puts a hand over his chest, stopping him.

"Lie back," he instructs evenly, and John swallows and obeys.

There is a trail of dark hair running down from John‘s navel, a nest of curls around his flushed cock. He looks exquisite, all spread out for Harold.

"Are you going to touch me at some point?" John asks, shifting around on the bed.

"As my physical therapist used to say: ‚It‘s not the destination that matters, it‘s the journey.‘," Harold says, smirking. He runs his hands over John‘s chest and shoulders, feeling the hard muscle underneath.

John groans. "You know, you aren't the only one who occasionally got... ideas during our sessions, I‘m not exactly unaffected by this," John manages, hissing when Harold runs his thumb over a nipple.

"If I remember it correctly, you were the one posing at the edge of the pool in a tiny piece of fabric," Harold says, running a hand down John‘s belly and between his legs.

John‘s hips thrust up against Harold‘s hand and Harold strokes him a few times before he moves his hand away and bends down to lick at John‘s nipple.

"Fuck," John says with feeling, his hands stroking Harold‘s head, his shoulders.

Harold uses the sharp edge of his teeth on a sensitized nipple and John‘s body jerks beneath him, his hand tightening on Harold‘s bicep. Harold smiles and moves his hand lower again, feeling the muscles of John‘s stomach tense in anticipation. He wraps a hand loosely around John‘s cock, thumb pressing down just under the head.

John moans and throws his head back, arching against the mattress.

Harold rubs at the spot until John is panting, muttering nonsense words and thrusting up against his palm. Then Harold takes his hand away.

John whines in frustration.

"Just a few more times, then you‘re done," Harold says, mimicking John‘s commands from the weeks before.

John looks desperate, his cock hard and leaking when Harold touches him again, hips snapping up against his hand.

"Hmh, you‘re doing so well," Harold says and lets go of John‘s cock after a few strokes to lie down next to him, lick and bite at his collarbones, tease his nipples into hardness.

John shudders. He finds the knot on the towel around's Harold's hips with one hand and undoes it, folding the fabric away until he gets to naked skin. John manages to get Harold‘s uninjured leg between both of his, rutting up against him.

"Need to get off, please," John manages between gasps, and Harold gives him an indulgent smile.

"Oh, do you?" He asks, sitting up again to slide his hand between John‘s legs, this time testing his opening, pressing one finger against him.

John has made noises before, but now he‘s _loud_ : moaning under Harold‘s hands completely without shame, saying: "Fuck me, please," over and over.

Harold gets some lube and starts to stretch John open with his fingertip. John pushes back against him, trying to take more of Harold‘s fingers.

"You look especially beautiful when you‘re this desperate," Harold observes, and John‘s cock twitches. "So very eager to be taken."

Harold reaches for the condoms and puts one on himself. He lies down on his back next to John, slicking himself up, then tapping John's hip to get his attention.

"Come on, you can do some of the work, now," Harold says.

Harold has been distracted by the sight and feel of John, but now that he‘s leaning back, he feels the insistent throbbing of his own cock, his own visceral need.

John blinks a few times before catching up, then he instantly changes position: kissing his way up Harold‘s thighs when he climbs on top of him, his erection sliding against Harold‘s leg, precome wet and sticky against Harold's skin.

John holds himself up on his arms so Harold won‘t have to support any of his weight, and Harold uses the opportunity to slide his hands over John‘s arms and shoulders, stroke the firm muscles shifting beneath the skin.

"I want you to ride me," Harold says, low and deliberate, and John closes his eyes and stills.

"Need a moment," he says, sweat running down his temples. "I‘m pretty close. Wanna make this good."

Harold makes a noncommittal sound and strokes John‘s back, letting him take his time.

Finally, John says "Yeah, okay" and leans down to kiss Harold again, sighing into his mouth when Harold runs his nails over the nape of John‘s neck.

When John straddles him, Harold is briefly worried if his hips are already up for such acrobatics, but John is squatting on his heels instead of resting on Harold's hips, balancing himself over him without as so much as touching Harold.

"Showoff," Harold mutters, except then John takes Harold‘s cock in hand and lowers himself down in one smooth move, one arm behind him to balance himself, and it‘s Harold‘s turn to groan loudly.

John really gets to do all the work like this: pushing up from his knees and thighs and then lowering himself down on Harold's cock. Harold takes John‘s erection in hand and gives him friction with every thrust of John‘s hips, and John whimpers, eyes heavy-lidded.

It's good, it's _perfect_ , Harold's whole body humming with the kick of endorphins.

"There was this exercise that you kept telling me to do, something about, ah, hip flexibility and range of movement?" Harold asks, and moves his pelvis in the way John showed him, raising his hips and fucking deeper into him.

"Oh, God," John moans, , throwing his head back, "yes, do that again, _fuck_ ," and Harold keeps moving, wraps his hand firmly around John‘s cock and jerks him off.

"Come for me, John, there you go," Harold says, pushing up again, and John clenches around him when he comes, making a guttural sound of pleasure while spilling over Harold‘s hand and stomach.

The sight of John falling apart is what finally undoes Harold, and he lets himself come with John‘s tight heat still wrapped around him.

After, John has the presence of mind to climb out of Harold‘s lap and dispose of the condom before sinking down next to him in a sweaty, boneless heap.

"That was," Harold says, still panting, but he can‘t quite come up with a decent enough description, so he just kisses the top of John‘s head, strokes his still damp hair.

"Hmmh," John says against his chest, curled up to his side. "I‘m really glad I showed you that hip thrust exercise."

Harold makes an annoyed huff, but he still keeps petting John, who sighs and nuzzles closer.

There is a moment of blissful, post-coital silence, before John suddenly sits up straight, nearly knocking Harold in the chin with his head.

"Did you drink enough? You must be dehydrated, I have a bottle of water in my bag, --"

"Shut up and go to sleep," Harold grumbles, lightly smacking the back of John's neck.

John changes position so he can pillow his head on Harold‘s chest and smile up at him.

"How‘s your hip? Your back? If you want, I can give you a massage later."

"John," Harold says, rolling his eyes. "I‘m not in pain, I‘m fine."

It takes him a moment to realize what he‘s saying, then he reaches down to take John‘s hand, kisses each knuckle in turn.

"I‘m fine," Harold says. "I‘m fine."

 

\-- FIN


End file.
